Eat, My Little Ones, Eat
From day one a mother’s main concern is feeding her child.
As babies, you try to breastfeed as it’s the best for them.
As toddlers you worry when they don’t eat enough.
As teenagers you worry that what they’re eating isn’t good for them.
This is still my concern.
I’m lucky. I’m blessed with a husband who likes to cook. I also have 3 sons, of who 2 like to cook. Unfortunately I have a husband and 3 sons who don’t want ME to cook.
You see, Warren and I have a good cop, bad cop thing going. Not planned. It’s just how it’s happened.
I worry about what the kids eat and he just wants to keep them happy.
When I’m cooking, I TELL the kids what we’re having for dinner.
When Warren cooks, he likes to open up a discussion about what everyone’s tastes for the night are.
I include vegies.
For example, the other day I had to throw out a few mouldy mandarins. Warren’s response to this: “We should stop buying fruit, they never eat it anyway.”
Ah hello? The correct response would have been: “We need to get the kids to eat more fruit.”
Are you seeing the problem here?
Unfortunately because of my need to have the kids eat nutritiously, no one likes my cooking. You add a piece of broccoli to something, and you become the chef from hell.
On a baking spree last month I donned an apron and as Warren kissed me goodbye I said jokingly: “Ok, I’ll stay in the kitchen and cook like women should.”
“Ummm, not ALL women should.” And then ran.
Ran VERY fast.
So today I contemplated making a nice fruit and nut slice. But, oh, no, Son Number 3 doesn’t like sultanas. Son Number 1 will complain no matter what and Son Number 2 doesn’t do ‘healthy’.
So I thought about Martha Needle: A South Australian woman, who poisoned her whole family (and anyone else who needed disposing of), in the late 1800s. She managed to add rat poison to everyone’s food without raising any suspicion. No one suspected that their tea and food was laced with anything untoward.
So, I thought, neither will my own family.
I smugly took a pancake shaker mix out of the pantry, filled it up to the line with water and prepared to make my family a batch of pancakes. There’d be no complaining with this lot. These pancakes wouldn’t be considered homemade. Totally processed, sweet and fake pancake goodness. Ha ha ha (evil laugh). The suckers won’t suspect a thing.
After shaking the crap out of the bottle I looked around to make sure I wasn’t being watched. Pretty stupid really, because my cherished, loved ones don’t walk past without taking a jab at my cooking skills if they see me in the kitchen.
With skills that even Inspector Gadget would be proud of, I pull out my poison.
I take another look to make sure I’m not being watched, and then I add a fair whack into the shaker bottle. Then I shake it like my life depends on it.
I can’t risk anyone tasting it.
I can’t risk being caught.
Eventually happy with the pancake mix, I cook them up and call everyone up for pancakes.
And my lovely family eat.
They eat and eat and eat.
They eat until they’re all gone.
“Thanks Mum, they were delish.”
Ha, ha, ha (more evil laughing).
Enjoy the added oat bran, suckers.
Enough With the Lemons